Forgotten Murder

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘You’re too good at this,’ said Bill with a grin.

  Jack grinned in return. ‘Thanks, but that’s fiction, Bill. I can arrange the circumstances so everything falls into place.’ He rolled a cigarette thoughtfully between his fingers before lighting it.

  ‘Is there anyone else in the frame?’ he asked. ‘For instance, is it noted that Mrs Trevelyan had any visitors that day? When I spoke to Mr Andrew Laidlaw – his firm owns the house and they were carrying out renovations on it at the time – he told me that he’d seen Mrs Trevelyan that morning and she had a friend with her. He couldn’t recall the name of the friend, but I think it must have been either a Mrs Sheila Langton or a Mrs Amelia Rotherwell.’

  ‘There’s no mention of a Mrs Langton,’ said Bill. ‘I’m presuming Mrs Langton is your pal, Jennifer Langton’s, mother. And Dr Martin Langton’s mother, come to that. Which, if you’re right about Jennifer Langton having witnessed the murder, makes it odd that she’s not mentioned. That other name you mentioned, though, Mrs Rotherwell, is noted as a visitor to Mrs Trevelyan on the morning of the fifteenth.’

  He flicked open his notebook. ‘Andrew Laidlaw made a statement to the effect that he saw Caroline Trevelyan at around eleven o’clock and they had coffee together. That was confirmed by the servants and Mrs Rotherwell, who was also there. I must say,’ he commented, looking up from his notebook, ‘that it all sounds very chummy. I wonder if the builders were usually invited in for morning coffee?’

  ‘Mr Laidlaw isn’t a hod-carrier,’ said Jack with a grin. ‘He’s an architect. No, apparently his wife, Violet, and Caroline Trevelyan were cousins and great friends into the bargain.’ He tapped his cigarette on the side of the ashtray. ‘I must say, I rather took to him and so did Betty. It’s just as well his new batch of houses aren’t completed. I think Betty would have bought one on the spot. The brochure for them is on the table beside you.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Bill, blinking at the brochure. ‘They’re bright, aren’t they? Your Mr Laidlaw must be a whizz of a salesman.’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ said Jack with a laugh. ‘She felt sorry for him. His brother was in the Flying Corps and bought it, poor devil, and his little boy died of the flu after the war. Mrs Offord, the housekeeper who showed us round Saunder’s Green, told us that he’d cared devotedly for his wife who was something of an invalid. She died in February, but she’d been ill for years.’

  ‘Poor beggar,’ commented Bill. ‘Still, it doesn’t make his houses any better. Anyway, Mr Laidlaw left the ladies to carry on with his work at around half eleven, but Mrs Rotherwell stayed for lunch. Lunch was served at half twelve and she left Mrs Trevelyan at about half one. She did make a statement, which is on file, but as she left well before three o’clock, she couldn’t say anything that was relevant to the case, apart from the fact that Mrs Trevelyan seemed in good spirits. How do you know about her?’

  ‘She was an old friend of Mrs Trevelyan’s, apparently. I knew there was at least one visitor, because Mr Laidlaw told me as much when I saw him. Mrs Rotherwell answered my advertisement. I put adverts in as many papers as I could think of, asking if anyone had any knowledge of Caroline or Michael Trevelyan, late of Saunder’s Green.’

  ‘That must’ve run into a bit of money.’

  ‘At eight bob a line, yes, it did, but it got results. Mrs Rotherwell wrote to say she was great friends with Mrs Trevelyan.’ Jack hesitated. ‘I suppose it is certain she left the house at half one, is it?’

  ‘That’s what the servants said,’ said Bill with a shrug. ‘You’re a suspicious devil,’ he added with a laugh. ‘You can rule out Mrs Rotherwell, though. At three o’clock she was in the tropical department in Harrods, being fitted out in the right togs for Ceylon. She insisted on producing the receipts to prove it. That’s on file. Her husband was in Ceylon. He was a tea planter and she was due to sail out to be with him in August. I don’t know if she ever got there.’

  ‘Could I have a look at her statement, Bill?’

  ‘You can look with pleasure, if you think it’s going to do you any good.’ His brow wrinkled. ‘You don’t honestly think she’s got anything to do with Caroline Trevelyan’s disappearance, do you? I told you, she was in Harrods.’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ said Jack with a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t waste my time suspecting impeccable memsahibs, especially if they’ve got impeccable alibis. According to her letter, she only got back from Ceylon a month ago. She’s staying at the Royal Park Hotel in Belgravia.’

  ‘Very nice,’ muttered Bill.

  ‘I offered to buy her lunch at the Criterion on Monday.’

  ‘You do a posher sort of interview than Scotland Yard can run to,’ said Bill with a laugh.

  Jack grinned. ‘I might as well get a decent lunch if I’m going to hang out with a daughter of the Empire. She sounds rather formidable, but a bit of luxury might make her more chatty. I thought that was worth a six bob lunch.’

  ‘Six shillings for lunch?’ said Bill with a laugh. ‘Don’t ever join the police, Jack. That would really cramp your style.’

  ‘It’s not a question of style. Well, not only a question of style,’ he amended, seeing Bill’s grin. ‘It’s that ladies of a certain age and class do tend to view any private investigator as some greasy oick of a bloke with a roll-up tucked behind his ear looking for divorce evidence.’

  ‘Impeccable memsahibs tend to look on the police in much the same way,’ said Bill mournfully. ‘And the only place I can take them is the local nick.’

  ‘Well, the Criterion was my way of reassuring her that I’m fit to be seen. Besides, I like it there. As her statement’s on file, I’d like to read it before I see her. It’s all such a long time ago, it’ll be useful to have a few facts to check her memory against. Did anyone else call that day?’

  ‘If they did, there’s no mention of them. I presume the baker and the butcher’s boy and so on called, but they’re not recorded.’

  ‘They’d call in the morning, anyway,’ said Jack absently. ‘There were builders in the house too, of course. They should all have been noted.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Bill. ‘The trouble is, Jack, that the only information that’s recorded in the files is that which is thought relevant to the investigation. As far as the builders are concerned, though, it’s noted that all the workmen finished for their lunch break at twelve o’clock and then left the premises. Saunder’s Green was only one of a number of houses they were working on in the area.’

  Jack clicked his tongue. ‘That’s a ruddy nuisance. All those men could’ve been potential witnesses.’

  ‘They could,’ said Bill, ‘but you’d have a dickens of a job tracing them after all this time. I think you can thank your lucky stars that’s not on the cards. You’d drive yourself up the wall. Did you have any other responses to your advert?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Just one, and that was from a Mrs Shilton. She’s none other than Michael Trevelyan’s sister.’

  ‘Is she, by Jove?’

  ‘Yes. She’s no happier than Dr Langton that I’m digging up the old business again. Apparently she doesn’t know anything about what happened on the day Caroline Trevelyan disappeared, but she’s certain that her brother was entirely innocent of the charges made. If I’d like to call round, she adds, she can reassure me in person. She only lives in Wimbledon, so it’s probably worth a trip, but I don’t know if she can add anything very much.’

  He broke off as a snatch of voices – cross voices – sounded from the street below. ‘Hello!’ he said in surprise. ‘That sounds like Betty.’ He crossed to the window and looked down. ‘Crikey, it is Betty! She’s got Miss Langton with her and a bloke. He must be Martin Langton. I didn’t know Jenny Langton was coming. I’d better go and show them in.’

  He clattered down the stairs to return in short order with Jenny, Betty and a solidly-built, dark-haired man in his early thirties, who could only be Martin Langton.

  Dr Langton was clearly put out by the presence
of his sister and Betty and, although gruffly polite, not very happy to find Bill present.

  ‘I had thought, Major Haldean,’ he said, turning to Jack, ‘that this was to be a private meeting.’

  ‘Don’t blame Mr Haldean,’ said Jenny quickly. ‘He didn’t know I was coming. Betty told me about the letter you wrote to him, Martin, and if you think I’m going to let you swan in and decide what I can and can’t do and what I should and shouldn’t know – because I know you do know something – without telling me, then think again.’

  Martin Langton bristled. ‘It’s a great pity,’ he said, ‘that you didn’t follow my advice and stayed in Leeds. You could’ve had a perfectly good job in my practice, but no, that wasn’t good enough. You insisted on coming down to London and look where it’s got you. None of this upset would’ve happened if you’d only stayed put.’

  ‘Don’t be so half-baked, Martin,’ said Jenny, suddenly sounding as northern as her brother. ‘I’ve a perfect right to live wherever I like. What’s more, Mr Rackham is an old friend of Mr Haldean’s. I imagine he’s just dropped in for a friendly call. You could try being a little more friendly yourself.’

  ‘Well, er …’ began Bill.

  Jack stepped in. ‘I asked Chief Inspector Rackham to be here because he knows the public facts of the case,’ he said smoothly. ‘That can only be helpful, surely? And, of course, you’re perfectly right, Miss Langton. A little friendliness never hurt anyone. Please, everyone, do sit down. And can I get anyone a drink?’

  Jenny and Betty plumped for sherry and Martin Langton went for beer.

  ‘I didn’t realise you’d tell Miss Langton her brother was calling here,’ he muttered to Betty as she joined him at the sideboard.

  ‘It’s Jenny’s business,’ said Betty unabashed. ‘Of course I told her.’ She glanced behind her. ‘They’re very similar, aren’t they? And they’ve both got tempers.’

  There wasn’t any doubt, thought Jack, as he handed Martin his beer, about the family resemblance or the temper. They were both good-looking, with dark hair, a firm chin and brown eyes.

  Martin Langton glared at his sister while she radiated annoyance back at him.

  ‘How on earth,’ demanded Martin, looking at Jenny, ‘did you get to hear of this old business with the Trevelyans?’

  ‘I explained all that in my letter,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you read it?’

  ‘Of course I read it! And do you honestly mean to tell me that on the basis of what can only be described as a bad dream, you’ve had Major Haldean here, to say nothing of the police, running round after you?’

  Jenny’s eyes narrowed. ‘It wasn’t just a bad dream though, was it? And if we’re talking about running around, a bad dream wouldn’t bring you running down from Leeds and a bad dream won’t explain the facts that Mr Haldean discovered.’

  ‘It’s a genuine case,’ Jack put in. ‘Bill, why don’t you go through what you found out from the police records?’

  Martin Langton listened to the account Bill gave with a lengthening face. ‘I never wanted any of this to come out,’ he said when Bill had finished. ‘It’s not a nice story and it’s all better left in the past, where it belongs.’ He reached out and squeezed Jenny’s hand. ‘Look, will you please drop it? It’d be so much better if you did.’

  ‘Of course I’m not going to drop it,’ said Jenny indignantly. ‘What do you remember, Martin? Were you there?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I wasn’t. I found out the truth later – which is, more or less, what you’ve just told us, Mr Rackham,’ he said with a nod towards Bill. ‘My parents told me and, what’s more, made me promise never to speak about it.’

  ‘But why?’ demanded Jenny. ‘Why did they make you promise? What did Mum see that day?’

  ‘She saw nothing,’ said Martin abruptly. ‘Jenny – please – I really can’t tell you anything more about it.’

  ‘Was your mother there, Dr Langton?’ asked Bill.

  Martin Langton looked absolutely wretched. ‘No. No, she wasn’t.’

  ‘But I was,’ said Jenny, staring at him. ‘I know I was. They had a little girl. We must’ve been friends. Was I staying with the Trevelyans?’

  Martin Langton flinched. ‘No. That is …’ He glanced up, caught Jack’s expression and raised his hand to his mouth.

  His reaction convinced Jack that what he had suspected was the truth. There was nothing for it. The truth had to be told. ‘I think you’d better tell her,’ said Jack quietly. ‘It’s bound to come out now we’ve gone so far.’

  Jenny gazed at him. ‘Tell me what?’

  Before he spoke, Jack looked to Betty for approval. She looked at him in startled apprehension, then drew her breath in and nodded slowly.

  ‘The thing is, Miss Langton,’ said Jack, ‘your brother’s tried to protect you from the truth—’

  ‘It was my responsibility!’ broke in Martin Langton. ‘Jenny …’ he began and then broke off. ‘No. I can’t do it.’ He glared at Jack. ‘If you know so much about it, you tell her.’

  Jack couldn’t blame Martin Langton for funking it but he wished he didn’t have to be the one to break the news. This was going to be difficult but there was nothing else for it. ‘Miss Langton,’ he began, his voice gentle, ‘there wasn’t any other little girl. There was only one. You.’

  Jenny looked at him in absolute bewilderment. ‘Me?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘So I was staying with the Trevelyans?’

  ‘Not exactly. You are a Trevelyan.’

  Jenny gaped at him soundlessly then slowly turned and faced Martin Langton.

  Langton buried his head in his hands. ‘He’s right,’ he said in a voice that was nothing more than a croak. ‘God knows, Jenny, I didn’t want to tell you.’

  She continued to stare at him, then sank back wordlessly into the chair, her face white. ‘So what you’re telling me,’ she said eventually, ‘is that my mother wasn’t my mother and Dad wasn’t Dad?’

  Martin nodded miserably.

  ‘And you’re not my brother?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’ He managed the ghost of a smile. ‘I always felt like your brother, though.’

  ‘You are relatives, though,’ put in Betty. ‘That’s obvious. Anyone can see that.’

  ‘We’re cousins,’ explained Martin heavily. ‘Your mother – I should say your real mother, Jenny – and mine were sisters. When the tragedy happened, Mum and Dad went and scooped you up. I remember you being brought home. I was told you were my new sister and I just accepted it.’ The ghost of a smile came and went once more. ‘I was only a kid myself. I was told that’s how it was, so that’s how it was.’

  ‘When did you find out the truth?’ asked Jenny in a whisper.

  ‘Years later. It was after Dad had his heart attack. I suppose he could see the writing on the wall and thought it was time to clear up how things really were.’

  ‘And no one told me?’

  Martin shrugged helplessly. ‘They thought it was for the best. And it was for the best. You must see that. If you hadn’t gone to the house that day, no one would’ve been any the wiser. Even now …’

  He turned to look at Jack with a curious expression. ‘You knew. How?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘It was the obvious solution. Miss Langton felt such an overwhelming sense of familiarity with the house, I wondered right from the start if she’d actually lived there.’ He lifted his head and smiled ruefully at Betty. ‘But when I suggested it to Betty, she was certain that you, Miss Langton, were a Langton through and through.’

  ‘I never doubted it,’ said Betty. ‘I’d met your family. Your parents were lovely, Jenny. To think they weren’t your family seemed ridiculous.’

  ‘We are her family,’ said Martin quickly. ‘That hasn’t changed.’ He glanced at Jack once more. ‘Was it really nothing more than a guess?’

  ‘More or less,’ agreed Jack. ‘Miss Langton certainly knew the house. That’s definite. There could’ve been other ex
planations, such as your mother, Mrs Langton, was close friends with Mrs Trevelyan and had called to see her, or that Jenny had stayed with the Trevelyans for some time, but if your mother, Dr Langton, really had been there that day, she would surely have been mentioned as a possible witness in the police investigation. The fact that the Trevelyans were on the brink of moving to New Zealand made it unlikely that they’d have a child to stay who had a perfectly good family of their own, but that could’ve been the case.’ He looked sympathetically at Martin, whose face was ashen. ‘Your reaction, I may say, ruled that out.’

  Martin sighed deeply and lit a cigarette. ‘I blew it, didn’t I?’ He looked at Jenny. ‘I’m sorry, Jen. If I could’ve come up with a good enough story, I’d have told you that, but I couldn’t think what the devil I could say. All I could think of was putting my foot down and refusing to tell you anything.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘I would have probably told you the truth, Mr Haldean, and appealed to your better nature to have kept the secret for Jenny’s sake. After all, it’s a nasty thing to have in your past.’

  He looked at Jenny. ‘I was horrified when I got your letter.’ His face twisted. ‘I mean, it’s a rotten thing to find out.’

  ‘The tree,’ said Jenny. ‘I looked down from the tree and saw my mother. Caroline Trevelyan was my mother.’

  Martin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘All that business with the tree and so on sounds a bit mysterious to me. Couldn’t you have imagined it? You have to have imagined it, surely.’

  Jenny started to speak, then stopped abruptly.

  ‘We don’t think she imagined everything,’ said Betty, taking up the cudgels on her friend’s behalf.